


let me drive this nuclear car (into your heart)

by keycchan



Series: dust to dust [2]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: M/M, stressed out dorks take 5 mins to mess around in the wasteland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 06:17:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10430979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keycchan/pseuds/keycchan
Summary: “Swear to God, officer, I didn’t realize I was going that fast!”“Prob’ly cause you haven’t moved an inch, kid.”---Nick and Deacon find a rusted shell of a Corvega; Deacon messes around, and Nick plays along.





	

**Author's Note:**

> originally written for a fic request thing on [my tumbles](keycchan.tumblr.com) (follow me and my mess of life where i occasionally draw and write), uploaded here bc i haven't uploaded a new fic here in like a month and i felt bad. have some very quick nick/deacon! slightly edited from the original to have like, .5% more content lol
> 
> original prompt was: [cop/person getting a speeding ticket au](http://keycchan.tumblr.com/post/158543418610/for-the-ship-fic-thing-could-you-please-do-38-i)
> 
> everytime you leave a comment and a kudos, my heart metaphorically grows three sizes. also i get the motivation to write more woop woop

“Swear to God, officer, I didn’t realize I was going that fast!”

“Prob’ly cause you haven’t moved an inch, kid.”

Deacon cracks a smile open a mile wide, and Nick stifles a grin of his own. He knows they probably look a little silly — a synth and a Railroad agent smack in the middle of Jamaica Plains, one of ‘em currently trying to rev up a dead Corvega like it’ll come firin’ back to life with a little spirit and willpower — but Nick doubts he’s got the heart to tell the kid to quit it, or that the car’s a walking mini-nuke ready to go off at anything.

With Deacon’s record of off-the-charts paranoia, he’s pretty sure the kid knows that more than he does.

“I promise I’ll be good if you let me off this one time, officer.” Deacon says, prettying his voice up like a pre-war damsel, and Nick barely holds back the snort. Ginger-y eyebrows waggle behind dark lenses at the encouragement, and Deacon grins. “Promise I’ll _treat_  you good if you let me _get_ you off this one time, officer.”

If he still had the ability to, he knows he’d be as red as a tato plant. One of the perks of being a synth, he supposes, as he chuckles. Raises his own brow, if he had one. “Don’t know if I should be charmed or tackin’ on another ticket just for that comment.”

Deacon only laughs at that, and it’s the best damn sound Nick’s heard in three months. Things have been stressful lately, especially with everyone working 24/7 to make up for losses while also making the teleporter that'll take 'em right to the face of the shadow enemy they'd been facin' for decades. Gonna be an amazing leap for the 'Wealth, the Railroad, but the blows they've taken to get this far have been damn near crippling. Lost so many safehouses, so many agents.

( He was there when Ticonderoga went dark. Saw the flash of grief on the kid's face when they found High Rise's body, so intense and heartbreakin' he wanted to leave the Railroad to burn, to take Deacon away and keep him safe from the shit the kid's been going through since day one. )

And Nick’s not surprised that Deacon’s one of the few who have the worst of it. In charge of intel, always sleeping with one eye open and checking over his shoulder every step of the way. Especially now that odds are getting stacked and risks are rising, Nick can’t blame the kid for having those dark rings under his eyes, or the stiffness in his shoulders. It’s not fair, but it’s the price they gotta pay. The only people who might have it worse may be Desdemona, in charge of making sure all this runs like clockwork, and Lamb, who’s been hounding out the Institute since she crawled out of the vault and is now missing an arm, a partin’ gift from the Courser she’d killed to get the chip they needed.

Nick knows he can’t be a full-time agent of the Railroad, he’s too recognizable to ever get away with it, but damn it all, he’ll help where he can. Even if it means just helping a few of the agents rest easier, by offering to keep watch on the missions he’s allowed to participate in or by giving talks of confidence to the newly escaped synths, assuring them that yes, there's a future out there for them in the 'Wealth. 

By allowing his Deacon some rest by covering the kid’s body with his trenchcoat at night. By massaging those rigid shoulders, ease some of the pain out. By talkin’ about the nightmares that frequent the kid’s every unconscious second, letting him vent it out, ease out the smell of ozone and blood and replace them with the dusty musk of Nick’s coat and nicotine.

By letting the kid hop into the shell of a rusty Corvega and let him hit on Nick like it’s pre-war flirtin’ all over again.

“You’re drifting on me, officer. Like what you see?” Deacon’s voice brings him back to Earth, and Nick blinks, before snorting and leaning against the side of the car. Deacon’s got a hand planted on the wheel and the other casually slung against the door, trying to look the part. With the pompadour wig and shades, Nick figures the kid just needs a leather jacket and the image will be complete.

“I always do.” Nick answers simply, can’t stifle the affectionate smile when he sees the kid’s cheeks flush pink and laugh a little in disbelief — because Nick’s found out ages ago how bad the kid deals with genuine compliments, and honestly, bein’ easy on the eyes is one of the less impressive feats Nick’s seen the kid capable of and _should_  be praised for.

“See, this is the part where you give me a ticket, and I give it back to you with my number scrawled on the back and like, kissy-marks all over.” Deacon recovers, half-seconds later, though his face is still pink. “Got any lipstick on you, officer?”

“’Fraid not, but maybe Ellie could teach you a trick or two when we get back to the city.” Nick answers easily, popping the door open. “Now c’mon, let's do that ‘fore it gets too late.”

“We, huh? Afraid I’m gonna be busy for awhile, Valentine. Don’t wait up for me in the agency.” Deacon answers, climbing out of the seat, and his voice is casual while his body says otherwise. A hand that lands on Nick’s arm squeezes more than it needs to to help Deacon climb out, and Nick reads between those lines easy.

They say _I wish I had more time to see you_ , and they say _I don’t want to go_.

Nick shuts the car with his metal hand, and uses his more human one to cup Deacon’s cheek. Leans in steady and gentle, gives Deacon the option to pull away if he wants, and allows his coolant to pump a little harder when Deacon _doesn’t_. Nick can’t taste anymore, but he doesn’t need to to know Deacon is warm and pleasant and _good_. They kiss like imprinting it into a memory, to have and to hold, a piece of goodness and warmth and _love_ to keep with them when the ‘Wealth gets dark and cold. Breathing each other in and out, trading air like it'll keep them alive like this,  _love_ , like it'll keep them both alive just that much longer. It makes Nick want to hold him forever. To bring him back to the agency, tell him to  _stay_ , for once, take care of him like he should be taken cared of, curled up in each other like the world doesn't have to matter for at least a little while.

Nick thinks, _You’ll always have a home with me_ , and he thinks  _Come back alive, kid, I’ll always leave the door unlocked, I'll always leave the lights on, just for you_.

What he says, instead, as he pulls away and smiles, tracing the edges of Deacon’s half-giddy laugh is, “Well, you’ve gotta come back and pay off that speeding ticket _some_ time.”

**Author's Note:**

> update: ahhHHH so the wonderful [pocketbrows](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketbrows/pseuds/pocketbrows) drew [smth nice](http://imgur.com/wbsYo0i) for this humble lil quickfic! tysm!


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